


An Off Day or: Matt and Foggy do chivalry right

by RiverK



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (mostly) heteronormative creative decisions in a transformative work because of reasons, Avocado BroT3, Concussions, Gen, Karen Has Issues, Matt and Foggy Subvert the Patriarchy, Matt has issues, Matt's mostly straight here, Nelson and Murdock, Sexism, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a day at Nelson and Murdock, awkward super senses, gender pay gap, periodfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverK/pseuds/RiverK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**Edited to add link to audio version in the beginning-notes. Because it makes sense in a fandom starring a blind guy.</p>
<p>The one where Foggy’s co-workers are self-denying, masochistic idiots, and the three of them occasionally succeed in cancelling that out. Also Matt has a concussion, and it makes him OOC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Off Day or: Matt and Foggy do chivalry right

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 19/12/2015 because mortification of mortifications, I've misspelled "bánh mì." The mistake has been duly corrected. To folks who get endlessly bothered by inconsequentia, I apologize.
> 
> Edited 20/12/2015: here's the [audio version on SoundCloud](https://soundcloud.com/durian-grey-746463243/fanfic_an-off-day-or-matt-and-foggy-do-chivalry-right)
> 
> In case the HTML link doesn't work, here it is in plaintext: https://soundcloud.com/durian-grey-746463243/fanfic_an-off-day-or-matt-and-foggy-do-chivalry-right

Karen enters the office like a riptide. I try not to think about the way her hormones mingle with the chicken bánh mì and lemongrass smoothie she plunks onto my desk, but there she is, and there they are, and here I am. Knowing exactly where she is on her monthly cycle. I like Karen. I like the femaleness of her and the way she smells. And I like Karen because she’s Karen. But I’m also her co-worker and her friend, and my being a mostly straight (there was that post-finals night in L2 with the Cuervo and the Sagada Gold that Foggy and I will never speak of again, because man. That was weird. Good weird, but weird) cis-male with a perfectly healthy libido shouldn’t get in the way of that. But biology.

And also she’s at the awkward part of her cycle. Not that the other parts aren’t awkward either, but this one’s bloody awkwarderer, pun intended.

Generally, I’m pretty good at shrugging off inappropriate knowledge, but last night’s roving theater of human trash had gotten a couple of lucky hits in, and I might, maybe, be just a teensy bit concussed. 

But only a little.

It’s not a big deal. 

Really, it’s like I’m not concussed at all.

My filters are off though. I’m having trouble keeping a handle on the social stuff and blocking out anything close by. Also I’m a little dizzy. But I can still work. We’re having a busy week for once, with four new paying clients. Foggy’s in ecstasies over all the “sweet, sweet fiscal stability” it’s presumably going to net us. I’m not about to waste that. Besides, it’s not like sorting through case files requires gymnastic skill.

She stands in front of me with her hands on her hips, trying to make herself bigger than she is. I can hear the muscles around her hips and lower back clench and grind against one another. I can taste her blood in the air; there is both too much of it, and not enough. Even with the rapid flutter of her elevated pulse, her blood pressure’s too low. She’s breathing too heavily for the effort it had taken for her to get up those stairs. There’s a tightness around her neck and temples, and the way she’d flinched at the window behind me suggests that she’s going to have a hell of a migraine later this afternoon. “Eat,” she says.

Like she’s one to talk. I sniff. Her last meal had been two cups of coffee and a banana. She probably needs the potassium, but she should have had more than that. Oh, and she’s had one spring roll in the past twenty minutes. Like, just one. And it isn’t resting well in her system, from the sound of it.

“You sound tired,” I say by way of reply.

“And you skipped lunch,” she retorts.

Did I? Damn, I didn’t notice. I hum in acknowledgement.

“Take a break, Matt. You look like you’re ready to fall over.”

“I’ll just finish reading this last document.”

“The document will still be there when you’re done, it’s OK to take a break.”

Foggy comes up from behind her, reeking of cilantro, rice noodles, and sriracha. “I’m seconding that,” he says. I didn’t even notice he was there. Damn, this concussion is really throwing me off. And also Karen’s… biology. It’s distracting. I hate this concussion. I hate it forever.

“Five minutes,” I growl, Devil-deep. Oops, wasn’t supposed to say it like that. Stupid malfunctioning brain-filter.

“At least let me put some ice on that shiner,” Karen huffs. Damn, she noticed. I was hoping it didn’t look that bad.

Foggy turns to her, and I can hear his eyes rolling in their sockets.

“And you, Karen. Go home and rest. Please.”

Karen retaliates with an eye-roll of her own. It’s an eye-roll bonanza up in here. “Foggy, I told you, I’m OK.”

He scoffs. “You’re not OK, you could barely hold down that spring roll. I had to finish the rest of your plate. And you’re paler than death.” He turns to me, “Matt, back me up here, tell her how terrible she looks.”

I open my mouth to agree with Foggy (and slip a blind joke in there, because Foggy’s a bro and he gave me the opening).

I hear her right hand clench into a fist. “I’m fine,” she says before I can say my piece.

“You’re not fine,” I say instead. “You’re barely catching your breath, and you’re obviously in pain.”

“How can you tell?”

“Your voice.” I lean back against my crappy swivel chair and wince when it grinds in protest and almost overbalances. Whoa, the world kinda didn’t stop tilting for a minute there. “Blind guy, remember? Sounds are my world. You can’t fool these ears.”

Foggy gestures to me and tilts his head at her. “See? Even Matt agrees, and he has a bruise on his face so big, he’s probably concussed.” The pointed way Foggy grates out the last two words suggests that the “probably” is just there for show. Dammit Nelson, keep it on the DL. I’ll get around to telling her eventually, we’ve talked about this.

“I’m OK,” I say.

He snorts. “Yeah right, don’t think you’re off the hook, Murdock. You’re eating that delicious Vietnamese food truck sandwich in,” he makes a show of checking an imaginary watch on his wrist, “four minutes, twenty-three seconds, and counting.”

I sigh and turn to Karen. “If I set this aside and eat right now, will you go home and rest?”

She shakes her head and straightens up. Her molars grind against one another as she works through the effort with her jaw. “I can’t.”

I can sense Foggy eyeing her, exasperated. “You can, Dude. It’s OK. And it’s OK not to be OK.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sick? You can take a sick day, you know.”

“No, no it isn’t.” There’s more anger there than I expected. Her heart rate’s going at a sprinter’s rapid clip, I realize. Her blood pressure’s still too low though.

“Why?”

She subvocalizes a snarl and releases it in a voiceless huff. “Because I have my period, and that’s why I’m like this today.”

“Oh well, that’s… um.”

I can feel the heat from Foggy’s face radiating at me from across the room. His chair creaks as he shifts with sudden discomfort. I squirm in sympathy. This isn’t something men are supposed to know. It’s wrong. But I know. I’ve known since yesterday. And I’ve known it intimately so. Let it not be said that super-senses cannot paint a clear picture. A clear, awkward picture. Of Awkwardness.

Friends aren’t supposed to know this much about other friends, but it’s not like I can turn this off.

“I’m bleeding from my uterus and it happens every month. It’s normal, and it shouldn’t stop me, but every month is different, and two months out of three, I’m… I’m this.” She gestures at herself like she’s trying to fling all of the pain and discomfort as far away as possible. Like she’s disgusting and shameful and just- just No, Karen. Stop. “And I don’t want it messing with my productivity. I don’t want this-” She gestures to herself again, “to be proof of why women are paid 77 cents to the dollar.”

Huh. My brain stutters. Should I talk? I feel like I should talk. And maybe say something about how utterly wrong that is. But I don’t know if it’s my place to say that. My left ear’s still ringing a little. I can only hear two blocks out from it. It’s a little disconcerting. Finding the right words through the ringing and the dizziness feels like trying to dance ballet through a fog-bank of cotton candy. Hm. Now there’s an interesting mental image. Not that I think much in visual images anyway, but yeah.

“That’s… hey. Karen. The weight of a structurally-entrenched patriarchy is not your responsibility.”

And Nelson for the save. Three points, touchdown, yay sports. Foggy’s the best. The bestesest. He retained more of that gender studies elective than I had.

“I know that, but I’d rather not give them ammo.” There’s a catch in Karen’s voice, like it’s something she’s been carrying inside of her on top of everything else she has on her plate. It’s all churning inside her, twanging across her shoulder- and back-muscles and the tendons in her neck: the frustration, the rage, the fear, the shame. And I hate whoever did that to her. The anger bubbles up inside of me, rattling the lid of my self-control like pasta noodles rattling the lid of a pot. Damn concussion. I don’t know why I’m thinking in food similes right now. Also, screw whoever made Karen feel like she has to prove that she’s more than her reproductive system. She’s awesome. Awesome Karen is awesome because she’s Karen. Screw the fucking patriarchy.

Wait. I’m a man. Am I doing this to her too? Dammit, I hate me. Then again, what’s new? Oh well, might as well lean into that white cis-hetero male privilege then. “We’re your bosses Karen, and we won’t use it as ammo. As representatives of the oppressor, we’ll do our best not to oppress. This our responsibility. This isn’t on you.”

Karen’s posture relaxes the slightest bit. She lets herself curl a little tighter into the knot of tension in her midsection.

Oh yeah, also I’m blind. It isn’t the same, but… yeah. Leaning in. “And you have as much right to ask for accommodation as I do.” I try to give her a Significant Look over the tops of my glasses to emphasize my point, but I’m pretty sure I’m missing by a mile. Which probably emphasizes my point. This country has laws, dammit. The letter of a lot of the laws aren’t exactly up to speed as far as gender equality is concerned, and precedent’s mostly… depressing, but the spirit of the law is there: She and other women have weapons. From what I’ve read and heard, the weapons are a pain in the ass to use, but they’re there. Not that Karen should have to use them on us. Not on our watch.

“Besides, if we were stupid enough to try and underpay you on sexist grounds –instead of, you know, the actual poverty grounds that you can actually verify, since you’re the one who’s keeping this office running- you’d kick our asses,” Foggy adds. “So hard.”

There it is. The disturbance in air currents and the slip of flesh over teeth that indicate a smile. A small, watery smile, but a smile all the same. Foggy’s awesome like that. And Karen’s awesome like that. And dammit, what am I even doing, sharing space with such awesome people?

“Fine,” she says. She moves out of my office area, towards her desk. I can feel her gaze on me from behind the fiberglass dividers. “I want to see you bite that sandwich, Matt,” she calls, gathering her things into her bag.

Foggy makes a pleased noise. “You heard the lady,” He says loudly, “eat.” He rustles the paper bag on my desk. He grabs my hand as I reach into the bag, “You don’t fool me, Murdock. You’ve been slurring half your words and smiling dopily at me and Karen all morning.” He says in a low voice, knowing I’d catch it. “You’re concussed.” He steps backwards and makes “I’m watching you” movements at me. “You’re not going to Fight Club until your screws aren’t knocked as loose.”

“First rule of Fight Club is we don’t talk about Fight Club,” I quip under my breath. But I nod all the same. I didn’t notice the slurring; Foggy might be on to something there.

He snorts again, but his shoulders loosen. He knows I’ll comply.

Karen has her things fixed, and she’s turned her head towards my office. “I’m not seeing any eating, Mister,” she warns. “Foggy, stop distracting him.”

“Yes Ma’am,” we chorus, and I make a show of taking out the bánh mì and taking a big bite.

Karen and Foggy turn their heads towards each other, and I assume they share a look. Both nod.

He leaves my office space and crosses over to his, slowing down when he passes Karen. “And you,” he says, pointing at her, “Matt and I are dropping by your place later with hot tea, heat packs, and ibuprofen. And, like, I don’t know. A pillow shaped like Thor’s bicep. Whatever you need. And you’d better be doing some hardcore resting when we do.”

I can’t stop my face. Stupid concussion no-filter-brain. I’m grinning like a loon over these two.

I can’t even.

**Author's Note:**

> Un beta-ed (as per usual because I cannot people, srsly, how do humans do it), so concrit will be treasured and taken to heart.
> 
> And also, I haven't been trained in American identity politics, but it's an interesting area to explore through fanfic. I absolutely do not mean to offend (unless it's to subvert oppressiony stuff and get people to ground themselves and question their premises, etc.) so please, if I got anything wrong, or if you think there's something that needs clarification, or heck, if you just want to share some thoughts, please feel free to tell me!


End file.
